Ratman's Notebooks Read online

  What puzzles me is why it should have been there at all. I suppose it was got for some fancy-dress party long ago. But I can’t remember any fancy-dress party. Or could it have been amateur theatricals. I seem to remember vaguely hearing about an amateur dramatic society in connection with the church—before I was born probably. I’ve got an idea Father and Mother had something to do with it. Perhaps they did The Wind in the Willows, which would have seemed quite modern in those days.

  I brought the rat-head down and put it on a chair in my bedroom. A vague idea was beginning to take shape in my brain. There was always the danger that on one of my raids I might be seen and recognised. Why not a disguise? And what better disguise than this? It would fit in with the Ratman legend, which was still lingering on. It would make things harder for the police. Should they believe in the Ratman theory, or reject it? What evidence could they believe? The more fantastic I could make things the more foxed they would be.

  Of course if I ever come under suspicion and the house is searched the rat-head is going to make pretty damning evidence against me—if I’ve used it that is. But then the house is full of damning evidence. What would they make of the cellar?

  It can’t make things any worse to use it, and it might help a lot.

  After Socrates was killed, I thought for a bit that Ben might partly take his place. I knew I couldn’t immediately have the same feeling for him as I had for Socrates, but I felt affectionate towards him and hoped that he might begin to feel affectionate towards me.

  So far there has been no sign of anything of the sort. He doesn’t mind being stroked, and of course he continues to sleep on my bed as a sort of right. Old Socrates wouldn’t have minded if all the rats shared my bed with him, but I’m sure Ben won’t tolerate any sharing. My bed is his throne, or royal palace, I don’t quite know which. All I am is the central heating. It’s funny to think that, if he wanted, he could quite easily turn me out of my own bed. If it came to that he could turn me out of the house, or even kill me. . . .

  I sometimes wonder what he thinks. He thinks a lot. I know that. Sometimes I find him looking at me with one of those little brown eyes. He nearly always does look at me sideways, one eye at a time. I feel like a top Russian under Stalin. It can’t have been very nice to find suddenly that Stalin was looking at you—and wonder what he was thinking.

  Perhaps Ben blames me for the death of Socrates. I could have saved Socrates. Ben maybe thinks I didn’t want to, that I wanted them both killed. Or else that I wanted him killed—and Socrates got killed instead by accident. The way Jones did it was so like the way I prodded Ben when I was chasing him off the bed. Of course I wouldn’t have gone on, really to injure him. But how does Ben know that? As he sees it he was lucky enough or clever enough to escape. Socrates couldn’t. . . .

  All I really know is that Ben doesn’t trust me—and I don’t trust him.

  One of these days I’ll have to do another raid. The amount of food the rats get through is perfectly appalling. They keep multiplying. I’ve no idea any more how many I’m feeding. Of course I’ll need the rats for the raid, and I can’t work the rats without Ben. Will he co-operate? How on earth can I make him understand what the raid is for? He understands food all right. If I went out raiding every night and brought the car back filled with food, he’d know what I was doing. But how can I explain to him that money is the equivalent of food, that once I have money I can get all the food we need?

  I don’t even know if he’ll come out with me at all. I certainly don’t think he’d come if he thought I was taking him to the office. Not that I’d want to take him there. There’s no comfort in having Ben about. When I’m working late I’m quite glad he’s not there. It’s bad enough going home at night to those nasty little eyes, that long thoughtful expression.

  Today I was on the jury—criminal case. Fancy me on the jury. It’s because the house is now in my name. Mother got exemption on account of age or something.

  I found the experience most interesting—and instructive. I listened very carefully to the police evidence. It taught me a lot about their methods, which may be useful. The chap in the dock was a mug. We found him guilty in about two minutes, no one disagreeing. The foreman said we’d better not go back too quick or the judge might think we hadn’t considered the case properly. So we all chatted for a bit and then they brought us in lunch. It was quite a good lunch—soup, boiled mutton, mashed potatoes and peas. There was rice-pudding too, but I didn’t have any because it had raisins in it, which I don’t like. Apart from that it was the best lunch I’ve had since Mother died.

  After lunch we went back and the foreman announced our verdict. The chap was sent to gaol for a year with suitable labour. He was a bit weakly looking. I’d have given him life. He ought never to be let out. He’s not fit to look after himself, a disgrace to the criminal classes. However chaps like him help to keep the police busy and I suppose the rest of us ought to be grateful.

  Acting on information received, as a policeman would say—actually it was a remark the girl made in the office—I proceeded last night (Saturday) to one of the poorer districts of ‘This great city of ours’ (Jones), and studied the shopping habits of the populace. The shops were doing an enormous business. The money was pouring in. I was interested to know what happened to it all after the shops closed. In some of the shops, of course, I couldn’t see where it went—presumably into safes on the premises—which would be outside my line of business. A lot, I feel pretty sure, went away in private cars with the owners of the businesses—they might interest me on another occasion. Suppose they take the money home and keep it about the house over the week-end.

  In one shop—quite a big shop too—a single light remained burning after all the others had gone out, and the staff had gone home. ‘That,’ I said to myself, ‘is the old boy himself, in his office, counting his ill-gotten gains—probably a hundred per cent off everything and nineteen per cent per annum after that in hire purchase.’

  Eventually the light went off and sure enough, from a side door, came a stooped old man. He was carrying a leather bag, which looked much too heavy for him. He shuffled along some side streets between warehouses, and came out eventually to a much brighter street. He crossed this and stopped almost immediately at a bank. He opened his bag and seemed to shove a lot of envelopes or packets through a sort of post-box in the wall. I waited till he had gone and went over to have a look. It was one of these night-safes. ‘That’s my man,’ I said to myself, and went home to bed.

  Maybe I have been silly about Ben. Maybe he has no nasty thoughts. Maybe he’d even come into the office with me again if I wanted. At any rate he came out in the car with me tonight quite willingly. Incidentally the car simply eats money, eats it and drinks it, smokes it and breathes it.

  What we did tonight was another reconnaissance, partly too a rehearsal. I wanted to familiarise Ben with the terrain as the Major might say.

  I parked the car in the street between the warehouses, facing the same way as the old man would be facing on his way to the bank, but on the opposite side of the road. I got out and paced the distances from each corner. I put Ben down on the pavement at the corner nearest the bank, and keeping a sharp eye out for dogs and cats got him to run back towards the car. I timed him and then timed myself walking slowly from the opposite end of the street to the same place. After that I moved the car forward a little and did it all over again. I tried to walk with a shuffling step which would be exactly the same speed as the old man from the shop.

  At last I got into the car and waited. I had a long wait. Shortly after midnight the old man appeared again from the side-door of his shop. In all the time I had been there not another soul had entered that street. This suits me very well. I timed the old man from the moment he put out the light in his office till the moment he opened the door on to the street—one minute five seconds. He must do a lot of fumbl
ing about in the dark. And from the moment he closed his own door, till he was level with the car. He walked faster than I had thought. He looked frightened too, as if very conscious of the danger he was in, carrying so much money along a dark street late at night. People go on doing these things till they do them once too often. Strangely enough he didn’t seem to notice the car, parked there with its lights out. It was someone coming up from behind he was afraid of. When he had gone I drove the car forward seven yards. I made a big chalk mark on the wall level with the front wheel, but just in case it should get rubbed out during the next week I memorised the position carefully.

  Home to a late supper for both of us. I write up these notes. I’m going to use the rat’s head as a disguise. The first time, but not I fancy the last. We shared the bread-and-milk. There’s no doubt about it, Ben is becoming more friendly.

  I’ve been doing a bit of drill, rehearsing for Saturday night, and perhaps for future occasions as well. I can get all the rats out of the car in between twenty-five and twenty-eight seconds. It takes forty to forty-five to get them back in again.

  Business isn’t too bad, is it Jones? Everything’s going along very nicely, isn’t it Jones? No more trouble with rats at the tyres. That was a man’s job you did in the office, Jones—killing the rat in the Ladies. All the girls admire you for that. There’s something about a real man that gives them a thrill. But don’t think that the rats have forgotten you, Jones. Vengeance is on the way.

  Actually Jones doesn’t think anything about it. That rats might have feelings would hardly occur to him. He has gone through life without being aware that people have feelings, certainly without caring whether they have them or not. So why bother about rats? Well! ‘Don’t care will be made to care’ and before he’s very much older. I haven’t fixed the date yet, but I’ve fixed the day. It will be a Friday, in the evening. I’ll find out too what he gets up to when he’s all by himself in the office.

  Saturday again. 11.30 p.m. All rats into the car, Ben in front with me. We drove through the City. Still a good many people about, some of them drunk. Fish and chip shops open. We reached the street of the dark warehouses. My chalk mark was still on the wall. I found it quite easily, but I didn’t park there. I parked further on, almost at the corner, on the wrong side of the road. I kept my sidelights on. I hoped that nothing would come round the corner quickly and run into me.

  I found that being on the same side of the street as the shop, and rather far away, I couldn’t see for certain if the light in the office was on or off. I got out of the car. ‘Stay there,’ I said to the rats. ‘Quiet.’ I closed the door and crossed to the opposite side of the street. The light was still on. It had a funny sort of permanent look as if it would never go out. I stood there gazing and waiting. Everything else went out of my head. I saw just the light. I felt it drawing me to itself. So must a moth feel. But I didn’t move. My feet were held to the pavement as if both they and it were powerfully magnetised.

  I was roused from my trance by a yell. A man was standing close beside my car. His head and shoulders were just coming out from the window at the driver’s seat. Had I left it open? I had certainly left the car unlocked, but that was deliberate. I wouldn’t have time to unlock it later when the critical moment arrived. The man cursed two or three times rather indistinctly. He kicked at the car wheels and went off mumbling. Obviously drunk. Probably he’d been fumbling about looking for something to steal and got his hand bitten by Ben. Teach him a lesson. I drew back a little into deeper shadow. I didn’t want to be seen by anyone, drunk or sober. I watched the drunk man anxiously as he lurched slowly up the street. Every now and then he stopped and seemed to suck his finger, but the street was too dark for me to be sure what he was doing. He stopped again at the light of the shop and stayed there for a long time. I expect he was examining his wounded finger, but I can’t be sure. I waited in horrible suspense. Suppose Mr. Shopkeeper came out and Mr. Drunk told him what had happened. That might spoil everything. Not that I think Mr. Shopkeeper would have listened for very long to Mr. Drunk. They wouldn’t have been sympathetic personalities.

  Mr. Drunk went on. For a little it seemed as if he couldn’t get round the corner. Then he managed it. Just in time. The light in the shop went out.

  I sprinted across the road and flung open the two doors of the car nearest to the pavement. ‘Out!’ I ordered. Rats came pouring out. I could see them by the inside light of the car. They were like a brown river. They made a soft continuous thudding, a sort of murmur, as they jumped down on to the pavement. ‘Stop!’ I said. They stopped. Ben had enough rats by this time—two-fifty, three hundred. I was going to need the rest myself. I jumped into the car and closed the door. ‘Stay there!’ I told Ben. ‘When I whistle, come.’

  I started the engine and reversed the car diagonally across the street till I was beside the chalk mark on the warehouse wall. I stopped there and switched off the engine. I opened the doors nearest the pavement. ‘Out!’ I told the remaining rats. ‘Under the car. Wait!’

  I paused and watched the shop again. No light. No sound. Surely he was taking longer than usual. Some sort of sound, perhaps a creak made faint by the distance. A scraping noise. The door must have sunk on its hinges. He had to give a tug to get it open. I whistled, a piercing whistle, distinct, but not very loud. The old man came out and slammed the door with a bang. It must be self-locking. He didn’t use any keys. He had his bag with him and began his usual shuffling walk along the pavement.

  I glanced quickly towards the other end of the street. I could just make out that Ben and his party were on the move. It looked as if the pavement were slowly creeping forward to meet the old man. I glanced back at him. He was coming on regardless.

  I dived into the car again and took out my rat-head mask. I kept myself well hidden by the car as I put it on. Plenty of time. I adjusted it so that I could see out quite comfortably. Remaining crouched beside the car I watched the old man and Ben’s party of rats approach each other. I didn’t want him to see them too soon, not in fact till he was almost among them—and it was going to work out that way. I chuckled to myself—silently, of course. What a shock he’d get! Nearer and nearer. As he came level with the car and began to pass it I slipped round to the back. He was past it. ‘Now!’ I whispered to the rats underneath the car. ‘Follow me!’ I tip-toed across the road and they came after, their soft footfalls making only the faintest stir that no deaf old man could hear.

  The old man stopped. He gave a funny little grunt. ‘Huh-huh, what’s this?’ He’d noticed Ben’s lot, but he didn’t seem really frightened. He looked for a moment, gave another little grunt. ‘Better go back.’ He turned round and began to shuffle back the way he had come, slightly faster perhaps, but not much. He wasn’t panicking. He saw that the rats weren’t moving very fast.

  I had come right across the road and was pressed close against the wall on the same side as the old man. He didn’t see me, but almost immediately he saw the second party of rats. ‘Dear me,’ he exclaimed—a mild old voice. Slightly agitated, you would say, nothing more. He began to run. He wasn’t very good at running, but he would get through all right. It wasn’t part of my plan to corner him. I had already diverted the second lot of rats so that they weren’t actually on the pavement, but running along in the gutter hemming him in. He would have to pass close to the wall, close to me.

  It all worked out exactly. He came stumbling along looking at the ground. First he caught sight of my feet. Another human being. Someone who’d help him. His eyes travelled up my body. Then he saw the rat face grinning at him. He gave a sort of gasp. It was at this instant that I snatched his bag. Snatched is the wrong word—relieved him of it. He made no fight. It almost dropped from his fingers. I thought he was going to faint. For a moment I was even afraid that he might drop dead at my feet. But he didn’t. He staggered on. These old businessmen are tougher than you’d think. Well
I’m glad. I didn’t want to hurt him. He’s done me no harm, only good.

  ‘Back to the car,’ I told the rats. Myself I stayed on the pavement to watch the old man. He kept running. I wondered would he go back to the shop to telephone, but no. He couldn’t risk the delay of perhaps fumbling with his key, having to fight with the door. He went on round the corner and disappeared in the same direction as the drunk. I hurried back to the car. Nearly all the rats were in. I gave a helping hand to the last few. I took off my mask, put the bag in the car, got in, drove home. No trouble. Do it again any time.

  £845. Best night’s work so far!

  The papers are full of it. In the office no one could talk of anything else. People in offices spend a lot of time talking. The old man is in hospital suffering from shock, but his condition isn’t serious. I’m glad. I wouldn’t like him to die on my account. Probably in the long run the fright will do him good.

  Jones as usual is the great expert. He stood in the middle of the office and talked to the Book-keeper in a loud voice, so that the whole staff could hear. He knows all about the rats. One of these days he’s going to know a bit more.

  Everyone I think is a little frightened. Before today I don’t think most people really believed that Ratman existed. Now almost everyone believes in him. Tonight I bought an evening paper, a thing I don’t usually do. On the way home in the bus I read an article—‘What is Ratman?’, complete with artist’s impression. Actually the artist’s impression isn’t bad except that I’m given claws instead of hands. I mean it’s quite like the mask. I looked round the bus. Nearly everyone was reading the same article. I laughed sardonically, but silently. If they just knew that Ratman was sitting beside them on the bus.